


Les Chasseurs

by hyenateeth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Era, F/M, M/M, Monster Hunter Grantaire, Monsters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Past Child Abuse, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyenateeth/pseuds/hyenateeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Their hunger is endless. They are mindless abominations who only wish to eat. They are not fast but they are strong. And what is worst...” His father would lean in at that point of the story, his putrid breath tickling Grantaire's face. “If they bite you, there are only two options. They eat you, or you become on of them. The curse eats you from the inside, until you are like them. Mindless. Lifeless. A thing that must be destroyed.”</i>
</p><p>Grantaire could not forget what laid in the shadows.</p><p>He certainly tried though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Chasseurs

**Author's Note:**

> Written ages ago for the kink meme prompt: "Nobody knows that Grantaire, is, in fact, descended from a long, proud line of monster hunters. He tried to turn his back on the family business, but when the zombie plague is upon them, it appears his talents are needed."
> 
> This is just the first chapter obviously, but I decided to transfer it here because AO3 is easier for me to work with than LJ. It's been edited some since the first posting but nothing is at it's core new.
> 
> (And edited again to fix my frankly egregious gramatical errors.)

His father had always smelled like wine and garlic, and would take young Grantaire on to his knee, to tell him stories.

“The _loup-garou_ is a monstrous beast,” he said sometimes. “A man who turns into a wold, and can only be slain with silver.”

Sometimes it was “Vengeful spirits can be kept away with charms, but the only permanent solution is to destroy the body. It ties them to this earth.”

One that would keep him up at night were the tales of the walking dead. “Their hunger is endless,” explained his father. “They are mindless abominations who only wish to eat. They are not fast but they are strong. And what is worst...” His father would lean in at that point of the story, his putrid breath tickling Grantaire's face. “If they bite you, there are only two options. They eat you, or you become on of them. The curse eats you from the inside, until you are like them. Mindless. Lifeless. A thing that must be destroyed.”

And such talk would have kept any child of a mere seven years up, curled up under a blanket, jumping at every noise he heard. But for Grantaire it was worse. 

Grantaire _knew_ they were real. He had always known. 

When he got older and people asked him what his father’s profession was, he would tell them he was _un chasseur_ , a hunter. It was not a lie. He did not hunt game though.

He hunted monsters.

It was this, more than anything, that kept young Grantaire up at night. It was not the shadows and what laid in them. It was not even the fact that his father would leave him alone for days on end and come back smelling like death. 

It was the knowledge of what exactly he did.

And the knowledge that, one day, he would be expected to follow in his father’s footsteps. 

The thing was, after all, the Grantaire name came with expectations. He was a legacy. He was an only child, and his mother had died before his memory properly began, so it had always just been him and his father. He had not quite understood when he was young, had blindly accepted his father’s lectures. By the time he turned ten years of age, he felt the weight in full force. The weight of generations, of the portraits of grandfathers and great grandfathers that hung on their walls, of the book his father kept to look at, the one young Grantaire had learned to read from, with the ornate R emblazoned on the front, and secrets of monsters and demons and spirits on the inside.

Still, he obeyed his father, because that is what good sons did. His father grew older, and grew ill from the alcohol, so he no longer told Grantaire stories when he came home from hunts. Instead, he had his son read to him aloud, read the hand-written scrawl of generations past. 

“The vampire,” Grantaire would read, “is attracted to beauty as much as it is blood. It will pray on beautiful women and boys, seducing, ravishing or otherwise targeting them before opening a vein. The most common areas for a vampire to bite are...”

As he read the gruesome text he would run his fingers over the ink renderings of the monsters. Those had always been his favorite part. He did not care much for the thought of death or killing. He was not sensitive per say, but the idea of all the killing, the war against these things that would never go away... 

His opinion mattered little. At age 12 it was time to pick up the gun.

His first monster was a _loup-garou_ that had been killing children a few villages over. His father let him take the shot. He missed and hit the tree next to the beast, who turned on young Grantaire in response, roaring monstrously. Before it could reach him his father had shot the beast dead center in his chest. The creature looked like a man when it hit the ground.

Then his father had turned on young Grantaire, shouting curses. “It could have killed you!”

He broke Grantaire’s nose and had him dig the silver bullet out of the tree, blood running down his face, thick and metallic. Every now and again he looked back at the dead creature, who was just a dead man now, naked and feeble, a hole blown in his chest, his blood red, just like Grantaire’s own.

His nose healed crooked and a bit too big. 

He did not miss next time. 

When he successfully killed his first monster though, his father clapped him on the back and handed him a bottle, and there was such pride in his eyes that young Grantaire could not refuse. The liquor burned but it made Grantaire feel better, less cold on the inside. 

By age 13 he understood why his father drank. He drank too. It was comfort, warm and pleasant against the cold, hard war that they could never win. And Grantaire was ready to resign himself to the life of a soldier. He killed monsters and destroyed bodies, shooting and stabbing and burning until he always smells smoke and blood. He almost began to feel proud of his work with his father. They were well known in the underground, and were paid well for their troubles. 

He liked to think they help people, maybe.

(He liked to think that, but he had seen the faces of the people he has dragged out of caves or away from a beasts clutches, he had seen the horror, the look in their eyes of their world being ripped out from under them. Sometimes they were injured, sometimes they had lost family or friends. None of them could talk about it. No one would believe them if they did. He liked to think he helps people. He really wanted to think that.)

He resigned himself to a life the same as his father, and his father’s father, resigned himself to the life his family had led for he didn’t know how long. 

He resigned himself, until the day he was 15, and his father died. It was an oddly peaceful death. He simply did not wake up one day. When Grantaire got the physician from town, he told him that his father, Monsieur Grantaire, had passed away from his heart attack in his sleep.

He was now the last of the Grantaire line.

Sadness came first. Then relief that he felt sadness. Then distress that he had apparently been worried he wouldn’t. 

Then nothing. He thought about funeral arrangements and matters of money, of which his father had left behind quite a bit. He thought about how he would continue his father’s business now that he was gone. He opened the book and paged through it mindlessly, running his fingers over the ink drawings.

Then a thought struck him. 

His father was dead. He was the last Grantaire. The only Grantaire. He was no longer anyone’s son. So he no longer had responsibilities as a son. 

He could do whatever he wants. He didn’t have to kill things. He didn't have to pretend he was helping people when he knew he really wasn't. 

The sudden freedom was exhilarating. He had no ties. No duty. He didn’t need to believe in anything, certainly didn’t have to believe in a war against forces so clearly beyond his little life. He was free.

He waited until his father was buried, and thought on what he wanted to do. He could do anything. He could read. He could drink. He could travel. None of those were plans though, none of them goals. He had no goals. No goals beyond escape this life. He wanted to leave it behind him, forget all about, forget about monsters and ghosts and demons and _everything_.

When no one was over, because suddenly everyone was over and fussing over poor Grantaire and his poor dead father, he pulled out the book and absently stroked the pictures of spirits and demons.

It clicked eventually. It probably should of dawned on him earlier, but all that mattered is that it did. 

He packed in one night. He brought little. Food, wine, a single change of clothes, saved most of his load to be his father’s, no, his money. After much thought he brought the book, along with some weapons he knew would be effective against monsters.

He was going to leave when he stopped and took one more thing. Every day that he could remember, his father had worn a small silver chain around his neck, with a cross dangling from it. It was easy to hide, and a decent charm against many things.

Grantaire had thought about burying it with his father. He had not. Instead he took it now and slipped it around his neck, hiding it under his shirt’s collar. 

That night he left for Paris on horseback. He did not think of what would happen to his father’s estate. He did not think of what would become of the legacy of his family. He only thought of the now. 

He much preferred it that way.

The trip to Paris was easy. He worried some about robbers and more about monsters, but neither bothered him. It took him a little under a fortnight, stopping to eat and sleep, walking his horse when he needed too, resting with her sometime, patting her nose fondly.

He stayed the night in villages when he could. Early in his journey people recognized him, sometimes. People in local villages who were saved by his father. Other’s who had seen him, but did not know the details of his work. The worst was a woman Grantaire remembered, who had been captured by a horrible demon, some kind of shapeshifting monster who kept people alive for days before finally eating them then stealing their identity in order to find a new victim. He remembered her clearly, had dragged her weak, injured body away as his father cut off the wretched monster’s head. 

She approached him when he stopped in town, and she was pale and gaunt, trembling all over, jumping at noises that were too loud. She thanked him at first, declaring her gratefulness that he had saved her life. Her mood changed suddenly though, and she began to shake harder, asking why he was here, why he had come and “Oh Monsieur there isn’t- oh not another-”

“No,” Grantaire said quickly. “No. No monsters. I am just. Delivering a message. To Paris. For my father.”

The lie comforted her, more than being told of his father's death and his subsequent abandonment would. Grantaire smiled and assured her of her safety, then gave her a little money from his bag. She was not a beggar, but he had seen the way the other villagers looked at her, confusion and disdain in their eyes. They knew something horrible had happened her, but they did not know what. To them she was probably a crazy woman, driven mad from some unknown cause. He wondered if she went against his father’s advice and tried to tell them. Even if she didn’t, her own appearance spoke volumes. So he gave her a little money because that is all he could think to do. 

In return she gave him wine. It was a good trade, and a decent wine, and he drank the it once he has left the town, trying to drown the image of her eyes, wide with a haunting that would likely never leave.

When he got closer to Paris the recognition stopped though, and the rest of his journey was remarkably ordinary. He reached Paris, sold his horse, patting her on the nose one last time, and went on the search for a place to live.

He found a cheap flat, which smelled a little odd but Grantaire did not really mind. It was his new home, and it would be better than a house outside a village in the middle of no where, alone with nothing but the reminder of his former duties.

And so Grantaire’s new life began, far away from his old one in both location and in spirit.

He took to Paris famously. Hunting had worn at his face so he looked a few years older than he was, which did not make for much of an attractive look, but it served him well enough. He drank and cavorted by night, by day he read and drew. He had never tried his hand at drawing, had never had the time. But Paris had no responsibilities, so he could draw. And draw he did. In his apartment at first, and then when he felt he had improved enough he moved out doors, sketching passersby on the street. 

It was all so average, and Grantaire reveled in it. He barely thought of monsters. 

Barely.

Of course he would like to not think of them at all, but he could not help it. He saw prostitutes standing on street corners and worried that a vampire would prey on them. When lamps would flicker he wondered if spirits were at hand. If a murder happened down the street or a few blocks over, he would think of demons, not common men who may have reason to kill. He could not escape these thoughts. He slept with a blessed knife under his pillow, and a gun loaded with silver bullets rested under his bed. He drew protection charms on his walls, then covered them with his own sketches to hide them from his landlord. 

Grantaire could not forget what laid in the shadows.

He certainly tried though.

He kept himself busy. He discovered absinthe around the same time he discovered classical writings. He discovered women soon after. He lost his virginity at the age of 17 in the back room of a cafe to a girl with long, dark hair. He had been drunk on wine, and they had remained mostly clothed, and she had called herself Veronique. He had been quite fond of her really. She had been beautiful and bright and had a lovely laugh, but he never saw her again after that night. He tried not to dwell. 

That was all he could do. Not dwell. He was no longer _un chasseur_. Maybe he would never stop thinking about his old life, but he could try. He focused on the present. He read a book then he did not read it again, finished a painting and hardly looked at it anymore.

Blind hedonism was easier on him. 

He began to study officially, painting mostly, and for a while he thought he may be happy, with his studies and his classes and his fellow students, but he was not entirely sure. “Happiness” was such a daunting word. It implied too many unknowns, and in Grantaire’s experience an unknown was really just a mask for something horrible to be known.

Maybe he knew too much to be happy. 

That was the core of it wasn’t it? Perhaps happiness stemmed from belief, and Grantaire could not believe in anything. Belief implied an inherent lack of knowledge. Grantaire knew things. He knew what a man looked like dead and he knew that a _loup-garou_ would bleed red and he knew how to kill dozens of things his classmates had never even heard of in things other than legend and he knew the eyes of a woman who would never recover from having her own belief shattered, so there was no room left in him for belief. 

Perhaps there was no room for happiness either. Which was probably why not long after he began to study the weight of knowledge began to bare down once again. Which was why his drinking, which had waned slightly at the beginning of his life as a proper student, redoubled soon.

(He could never escape this gravity could he? Here he was in Paris, years after he had even seen a beast, and he still felt a weight.)

So he drank and he drank and he reveled in the fleeting warmth it gave him. At some point he became sort of friends with a boy named Jean Prouvaire. Prouvaire, or Jehan as his friends called him (and Grantaire supposed that meant he should call him Jehan as well) liked poetry and flowers and dressed oddly and was kind to all and therefore was liked by all. Grantaire liked him. He liked those who were dissimilar to him. 

Grantaire met others through Jehan, Courfeyrac and Joly and Bahorel and a few others, and Grantaire generally liked them all well enough. They laughed at his jokes and drank with him, and they never pressed when he answered their questions with vague half-truths: He was from the country and his father had been a hunter and when he died Grantaire had traveled to Paris to get an education. They never asked for more. They had their own stories to tell, and a present to discuss.

Grantaire liked them. He thought they might like him. He had spent most of his childhood devoid of others, his life belonging to monsters instead of friends, but he thought they liked him. If anything they were amused by his drunkenness, which was something Grantaire was happy to provide for them. 

He drank more and laughed louder and thought less. He fucked women and did not long for them afterwards. He woke up sick frequently, but did not stop. 

He was worried what would happen, what he would think if, feel if he stopped. 

Days blended together, mostly.

One day didn’t.

Which was odd really because he was still drunk on the day he met Enjolras. He had drunk wine for breakfast that morning, _when did he start doing that_ , so he was a little drunk even early in the night when Courfeyrac slung an arm around his shoulder. 

“Grantaire, my friend, have you met noble Enjolras?”

Grantaire had not. “Noble? I have met no noble man. I dare say they do not exist.”

“Ah, ever the skeptic! You discount the existence of noblemen?”

“Noblemen are the least noble of any man, I suspect.”

Courfeyrac laughed at that, clapping Grantaire’s back soundly. “No matter. You must meet Enjolras. We share a class and he has agreed to come out to the Musain tonight. He is a funny fellow.” He grinned a little broader. “You will likely hate each other.”

However when they did finally meet that night, Grantaire did not hate Enjolras.

Not at all. 

He was instead struck immediately with the man’s youthful beauty. It seemed unreal, that such a figure should exist, all flashing blue eyes and flowing blond locks and soft looking lips, and such a stern, resolute expression that he could have been a sculpture. 

Noble Enjolras indeed. It made Grantaire ache that such a beauty could exist in such an ugly world. 

_(“The vampire is attracted to beauty as much as it is blood-”)_

Grantaire said little when he met Enjolras beyond general introductions. The youth had his own way with words, backed by a serious passion that Grantaire marveled at. How lovely that he could feel such passion for the world. It was inspiring and naive all at once and it and it only added to the ache within Grantaire. 

_(“It will pray on beautiful women and boys, seducing, ravishing or otherwise targeting them-”)_

Grantaire wished he could have listened better when Enjolras spoke, their conversation turning to politics. He wished he could have believed in the same ideas that Enjolras so clearly believed. He tried. He did.

_(“-attracted to beauty-”)_

He could not. He drank heavily and laughed when other’s made jokes and said little otherwise. When he thought no one was looking her fingered the silver cross he still hid underneath his collar. 

He was profoundly drunk by the time the night was over, though he felt none of the warmth it normally brought him. And perhaps it was the drink that drove him to follow Enjolras when he left the cafe, but it was likelier the the facts that had been repeating themselves in his head all night. _(Not just vampires, sometimes demons or shapeshifter and oh god that woman’s eyes and-)_

He could not bare the idea, so he followed Enjolras. He had hoped that Enjolras might not notice him. He has tracked before, but that was many years and many bottles ago, so it does not work as well as he hoped. 

“Why are you following me Grantaire?” Enjolras called out, turning on the man trailing behind him. “Have I offended you in some way? Or do you wish for something?” There was anger in his voice and Grantaire felt a stab of guilt low in his stomach. 

“I am sorry,” was all he said. 

“For what? For trailing behind me like a criminal after we have barely met? Or for failing to answer my question?” Enjolras approached Grantaire, the shadowed features on his face becoming more visible, and Grantaire is actually fairly impressed at the intimidation Enjolras can instill. “ _Why are you following me?_ ”

Grantaire did not know what he could say, but perhaps wine had loosened his tongue more than he thought, because out of his mouth slipped the truth. 

“I wanted to keep you safe. Monsters are attracted to beauty such as yours.”

He regretted it the instant he said it.

Confusion flickered over Enjolras’s face for an instant, before it hardened again.

“Well, I may be _beautiful_ , as you put it, but I assure you, I am still a man, and I am still quite capable of defending myself.”

 _You don’t understand_ is what Grantaire wants to say but he has already said too much and more than that he didn’t _want_ Enjolras to understand.

He stared at Enjolras dumbly until the man made an irritated noise and began to turn away, and Grantaire panicked a little. 

“Wait!” he yelped. “Just let me walk you home!”

Enjolras gave him a regarding look that Grantaire withered under a little. Still, he persisted. “I will not speak or bother you. Just... humor this poor drunkard?”

There was a weighty silence, then Enjolras turned. “Come along then.”

Sure enough they walked in silence, Enjolras looking resolutely straight ahead, Grantaire’s eyes flicking to every alleyway and shadow, looking for monsters in a way he hadn’t in years. 

They reached the building Enjolras lived in (which was far nicer than Grantaire’s), and the man nodded seriously at Grantaire, and Grantaire did not miss the hint of condescension in his gaze, but he did not care. He nodded back smiled as Enjolras as he went inside. 

When he thought Enjolras would not come back out, he crouched near the door and pulled off his cross. Using the silver point he scratched a very small protection charm on the wall near the door frame. 

He hoped no one would notice. 

Once he was finished he very quickly placed the chain back on his neck, glancing up at the building as he tucked it into his collar. 

“Should be enough,” he mumbled to himself, and then began the walk back to his own home.


End file.
